


Catharsis

by thegeekgene



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Crying, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:56:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegeekgene/pseuds/thegeekgene
Summary: Written in response to prompts: a back rub that started casual, turns into something more, and; first time, one of them bursts into tears during sex but insists they finish, anyway.
Written in 2011. Seemed like a good time to bring it out of retirement, somehow. Mind the Depression tag, see end notes if you're wary.





	

Saturday night in the office and it's the second time this month – Jon needs to get a fucking life. Yeah, there's shit going on and, yeah, there's work to be done but none of it is so pressing it can't wait until tomorrow (Sunday afternoon, his regularly scheduled overtime, if you will, or at least the overtime people can hear about without looking worried and quietly suggesting he should maybe take some time off) and there's no news story he can't follow from home. But he doesn't want to follow them from home. Staring zombie-like at CNNMSNBCC-SPANFox in his living room is a special kind of pathetic. Doing the same in his office offers at least an illusion of productivity, especially if he takes notes and keeps some important-looking papers on hand to stare zombie-like at when O'Reilly goes to commercial.

 

He kind of wishes he hadn't already finished the book for Monday. And that Tuesday and Thursday weren't actors. (Fuck them and their negligence in providing him with eight-hundred page treatises about fucking, I don't know, 17th century banks with which to fill up his empty, empty life!) And that he knew who was even going to be on on Wednesday.

 

At half past, his cell phone interrupts a particularly promising thread of morose introspection. That's exciting. To preserve the suspense – or maybe because he forgets – he doesn't check the caller ID before he answers. So it's with genuine warmth and surprise he says, “Stephen!” when he hears the voice at the other end, asking if that 'hello' is any way to speak to a lady.

 

“Hang on a second,” he adds and digs the remote out from under him to hit mute. O'Reilly duly silenced, he returns, saying, “Hey.”

 

“Hi, Jon,” Stephen says, amused.

 

“What's happening?”

 

“Not much.”

 

There's noise behind him. Wind, the living sounds of the street. Stephen's calling from outside.

 

“Tell me something, Jon.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Would you happen to be in your office right now?”

 

Jon hesitates, which is an answer unto itself and he knows it. There's a ripped seam in the side of his cargo pants and he sets to work making it worse.

 

“I might be.”

 

“In your office,” Stephen says. “At eight-thirty. On a Saturday.”

 

“I said might,” Jon protests.

 

“Hey, it's cool,” Stephen replies, suddenly and elaborately casual. Jon can see the innocent widening of eyes as clearly as if he were standing in front of him. “I was just wondering if you'd come let me in.”

 

It takes Jon a second.

 

Then he bursts out laughing.

 

“Which door?”

 

 

So it turns out Stephen also needs to get a life. That's not the kind of thing you should be happy to learn about your friends but Jon's selfish and lonely and bored and pathetic and he tells Stephen this as they wind their way back to his office.

 

Another thing Stephen doesn't have is a satisfactory explanation of why he was lurking outside the the Daily Show studio at 8:30 PM on a Saturday.

 

(The truth is this: Stephen was over in his office at his studio doing the same thing Jon was doing here, with the added bonus of a big pile of gay marriage legalization-inspired angst and self-pity over his apparently unrequited feelings for Jon. He hasn't been sleeping much, either, the last week or so, so he finally decided, fuck it, he was going to go tell Jon because if he can destroy ten years of friendship with one little proclamation of undying affection, friendship can go fuck itself. This in mind, he called Jon and – he wasn't home. Of course he wasn't. Why would Stephen expect anything different? So he closed up the studio and started walking and found himself in front of the Daily Show studio where he took a chance on his cell, for the hell of it. Hearing him mute O'Reilly, and knowing he wasn't at home, took his possible locations down to one.

 

That's the story. Jon will never know, in part because it's fucking embarrassing and in part because he'd never believe it, anyway.)

 

Jon couldn't care less. He waves Stephen towards the couch while he sits backward in a visitor's chair, leaning on the back. He gives Stephen a smile then drops his head to scrub rough fingers through his hair, sending a tingle through his scalp. His bubble of solipsistic angst has been broken and he feels every inch as tired as he has been for weeks. He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighs, hauling himself towards a more comfortable frame of mind, one that can act as grateful for Stephen's company as he is. He's startled when he feels Stephen's hands on his shoulders, but doesn't shrug him off; he simply tips his head back and meets his eyes, dark and warm above him.

 

“Hi,” he says.

 

Stephen grins and squeezes, gently. It feels kind of nice.

 

“Hello, Jon,” he replies. “Tell me something else.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“When was the last time you slept?”

 

Jon smiles, again, but it feels loose and weak.

 

“Ah,” he says. “What year is this?”

 

Stephen's smile turns soft – too soft. It does weird things to Jon's stomach when Stephen looks at him like that. He leans forward, again, and buries his face in his hands.

 

“Don't start,” he warns. “I don't do it on purpose.”

 

“I know you don't.”

 

Jon feels Stephen's fingers pressing into his shoulders, again, and holds back a sigh. He expects Stephen to let go and move away and is pleasantly surprised to feel his hands sliding down and in, his thumbs beginning to rub slow, firm circles on either side of Jon's nape.

 

A warm current radiates from those two points, down his spine and up, straight into the pleasure center of Jon's brain. The level of tension he builds up in a day is enough to produce a low-level ache through every muscle by evening – weeks and weeks of build-up mean he should probably be spending every day, to say nothing of nights, in agony. It would take a stronger man than Jon to keep from moaning as this first gentle resistance is put to all his accumulated stress.

 

He has maybe half a second to be embarrassed before Stephen's grip on him firms and he says, “Feel good?” He sounds amused but pleased and Jon is starting to tingle.

 

“God, yes.”

 

He slumps more weight against the chair back he's leaning on. Holding his head up seems like a chore so he drops a forearm over the top and rests his forehead against it. Stephen doesn't answer but he begins to rub a little harder and his efforts expand to Jon's deadly sore shoulders, squeezing and working knots long-established and unnoticed. Once called to his attention, they hurt but soon dissolve under Stephen's hands, leaving only a loose, pleasant memory of the ache. Jon gives up keeping quiet about thirty seconds in, settling for limiting his audible appreciation to soft sighs and similarly quiet moans rather than unleashing the full-throated porn groans the occasion deserves.

 

He expects Stephen to stop around the time his shoulders liquify but he simply moves lower and keeps going, pressing into Jon's back through his t-shirt, one thumb digging into either side of his spine, and by the time Stephen's finished the space between his shoulderblades, Jon is trembling.

 

He drifts out and begins working his way back in, fingertips pushing down into his ill-used muscles, and Jon can't stop himself saying, “God, Stephen - ”

 

There's a pause, of sorts – Stephen's hands don't leave him but they stop moving for a moment and, when they begin again, the angle is a little different. Jon is curious, could probably figure it out if his brain weren't melting along with the rest of him. A moment later, attention is returned to his spine, at the top of the hollow of his lower back, and it's something about that spot, or maybe Stephen's chanced on some key motion, but Jon can't stand it anymore and he fucking whimpers.

 

It's a high, soft noise, needy verging on desperate, and Jon can barely believe he just heard himself make it. In the seconds that follow, a couple of things happen.

 

First, the haze over Jon's mind clears enough for him to realize his dick is hard and probably has been for a while.

 

At the same time, he realizes Stephen has frozen.

 

He's mortified, beyond mortified, so far gone his erection probably wouldn't be a concern, anymore, if Stephen hadn't chosen that moment to do the same damn thing again.

 

It's just as good the second time and, as Jon's breath catches, he shudders, sudden and violent. Too damn good.

 

Stephen makes a sound, low and rough, and before Jon can interpret it, his quiver has been taken as an invitation to keep at that spot (and it definitely is that spot, holy fuck, how did Jon not know this about his own damn body) thumbs digging in, moving slow and hard. Jon gasps and moans, again, clutching the chair back as Stephen works him into a panting, trembling mess.

 

And then he stops.

 

All at once, Stephen's not touching him anymore and Jon is left shuddering, alone in his chair. He should stop, get up, he should say something, but the ecstasy is still singing in his veins and his nerves are still buzzing and he can still feel Stephen's hands like ghosts or brands burned into him and his dick is so hard it hurts and he can't bring himself to – 

 

And then, just as suddenly, they're back – slow, tentative fingers, brushing first over the waistband of his cargo pants and then slipping up his t-shirt to rest, ever so gently, on the bare skin underneath.

 

Jon's nerves are shot and he feels it like a slap, that tiny contact setting him aflame so for one panic-stricken moment he thinks he's going to come in his pants. He shudders and goes limp, body surrendering to whatever Stephen wants to do with it. Which seems, at the moment, to be – not much.

 

He can hear Stephen breathing a little faster than usual over his own pants which makes him feel better. Or it would make him feel better if Stephen weren't still touching his skin. That kind of cancels out any other feelings he might have about anything.

 

After a while – Jon couldn't say how long – the fire burns itself down to a smolder and he can kind of think, again, about something other than how long it's been since somebody touched him and how good it feels and how bad he needs to come. Around the same time, Stephen says, “Jon?”

 

His voice is soft and worried, choked with something familiar. Hardly daring to think, Jon turns to look at him.

 

Stephen is on his knees behind Jon (that was the pause, he couldn't reach that low) gazing back at him with eyes huge and black and deep-flushed cheeks. His lips are parted and, when his tongue darts out to wet them, Jon notices not just that (though it's distracting enough) but that the lower one looks oddly red and swollen, like he's been biting down on it.

 

Stephen also has an erection. A really obvious erection. And it's been a long time since Jon got fucked, a long time since he's thought about it or let himself think about it, but he wants it. He wants it bad and fuck, he'd thought he was past this but apparently not. The thought sloshes over him, consuming him, for a few long seconds, and by the time he can tear his eyes away, Stephen's blush has darkened.

 

“Hey,” Jon says. It doesn't sound like him. He's fighting the urge to squirm, the urge to flee, and a deeper, more disturbing urge to demand to know why Stephen's not pounding his ass yet.

 

“Hey,” Stephen says. “Uh – Can I – ?”

 

Jon feels a tug at the hem of his shirt.

 

“What?” he says. “Oh, of course.”

 

He does Stephen one better and peels it off himself. There's a sharp intake of breath that ought to please him but he's not thinking about attraction or seduction. He's thinking about need and what he shouldn't need but – 

 

Stephen is rubbing his back, again. The low hollow, now, which makes him tingle and moan and stop thinking, his head dropping back onto his arm, but he doesn't shatter like before. Different spot. Still good but a different good; a warm tide rising rather than a lightning strike.

 

His world is narrowed to his spine, the low planes on either side; to Stephen's fingers, Stephen's palms, warm and strong against his skin. They slip lower and lower until he's rubbing along the waistband of Jon's pants, then skimming under and Jon begins breathing a little harder.

 

Stephen's close, he's getting so close to where Jon's body divides, but not close enough and he can't stop, can't help pushing back into his hands, because his hands are so close, an inch, less, and the skin all along his crevasse is tingling, his hole prickling, and Jon needs so badly to be touched.

 

“Stephen.” He's not expecting to say it, can't help it. “Stephen,” he says, again, and shifts under his faltering hands. He feels lost, broken, it's all so surreal and he doesn't want, can't help but say, “Could you please – ?”

 

“Of course,” Stephen breathes into his hesitation. “Yes. Anything.”

 

Jon believes that. Can't help but believe, because it's Stephen, he believes that Stephen would do anything he asks, right now, and he wishes he could ask for something, anything, could actually say something that won't destroy him, but there's only one thing in his head and only so many ways to say it and it takes him a minute to find the one he can use without hating himself completely.

 

He arches back hard into Stephen's hands, edging his ass up towards his palms and forces out the words. “St – Stephen, please – don't – tease me, god, I can't – please. If you're going to.”

 

There's an instant's pause and Jon's face, buried in his arm, is burning, his stomach hollowing, helpless and humiliated. He shouldn't have said anything, he knows that now, shouldn't have given in, should have let Stephen –

 

And then Stephen curses and his hands close down on Jon's ass and Jon moans, actually moans, low and loud, in relief. Stephen swears again and squeezes and his pants are in the way and maybe he's that keyed up or maybe it's the symbolism, a tangible representation of the real thing, or maybe it's the promise, the rising possibility of more, but it feels good, so good, and Jon needs more.

 

“Stephen,” he says, feeling dazed, bewildered, a little frantic because it's been so long since he wanted this, felt this, and he's not sure it's ever been this bad before, gone this deep, the feeling, the craving, the one he hasn't had or hasn't thought about and he doesn't know what to make of it, isn't sure what to do except –

 

“God, Jon.” Stephen's up against him, suddenly, arms around his waist, and Jon hasn't noticed how cold the office was until now, until he's got Stephen's chest against his back, Stephen holding fast around him, the solid heat of his body through the soft fleece of his pullover and there's a hard plastic ridge of zipper digging into him, a chill point of contrast, and he moans, again, and presses back. He can feel his nipples hardening, can hear Stephen saying, “C'mere, come on, fuck, Jon, I'm sorry,” and he's being drawn out of his chair and down into Stephen's lap.

 

His erection presses to Jon's ass through too many layers of clothes and it's too much to have without everything and Jon feels a stab of self-loathing, of loathing for his own ache, his own neediness, because this isn't him or it isn't supposed to be but it is because he still needs – needs – he needs something, god he needs something and it's with a frantic near sob he bursts into clumsy motion, twisting himself out of Stephen's grip (he can hear him saying, “Jon?” and he sounds startled, almost scared and so vulnerable and Jon cannot hurt him) and around.

 

Jon flings his arms tight around Stephen's neck and presses himself close, straddling his thighs and going in for what he realizes, a breath away, will be their first kiss. His eyes (when did they close?) fly open and he falters. But Stephen – god, Stephen – Stephen makes a little moaning sound, relief and desire, and Jon is being hugged, strong, fleece-covered arms locking their bodies together, those same miraculous fingers sliding into his hair and he gasps as their erections touch but deeper and heavier is Stephen's kiss, a soft, moist huff of breath against Jon's lips and then wet pressure, hot and deep, too deep for the first time but Jon throws himself into it. He's clinging tight to Stephen's shoulders, self-conscious, searching, and he pushes deeper into Stephen's mouth, deeper into Stephen's living warmth.

 

Stephen is holding him tight in return and shakes and moans around his tongue before sucking it deeper. It's hot and exciting and reassuring in a way that lets Jon appreciate those other qualities, gives him the confidence to break away and pull at Stephen's fleece until he can peel him out of it.

 

Stephen is left in his t-shirt with ruffled hair and skewed glasses, blinking at Jon with eyes dazed and full of feeling. His hands land against on Jon's lower back and Jon says his name again, he thinks, before he's dragged in close and Stephen is kissing him, again, his mouth and his jaw and down his neck, hard, sucking kisses and Jon moans and hangs on, fast to his shirt.

 

“S-Stephen,” he says – gasps, really, harsh into the air. “Stephen. Stephen, please, don't – don't make me – fuck, Stephen, please.”

 

Stephen's head lifts from his collarbone and Jon is kissed hard, again. Stephen handles him roughly (has to, Jon realizes, for how hard he's holding on) pushing him back and gripping the side of his face tight in one hand. Jon scrapes at his chest, fighting the push, and his fingers tangle in the cotton of his t-shirt.

 

“Jon,” Stephen says. “Jon.”

 

Jon meets his eyes, needy and humiliated, face hot, eyes prickling, and if Stephen's smiling he'll fucking break.

 

But Stephen's not smiling – he looks flushed, intent, black-eyed and bruise-lipped, as he says, “Jon, fuck, I can't – Whatever you need. Just tell me.”

 

And he sounds ragged and serious but how can he be, isn't it fucking obvious? Jon wrenches away from his hand and grabs it in one of his. He can't do this, he can't – He pushes his face into Stephen's neck and forces his hand down.

 

“Just touch me,” he says and it's true, it's what he needs, not all of it, maybe, but it's what he can live with, what he'll take if he can have nothing else and he shouldn't ask for anything, not even this, and he thinks he might actually cry. “Please.”

 

Stephen's breath catches and he gathers him tight – one arm strong around Jon's waist, fingers spread warm over his side, and his hand curves around Jon's ass, squeezing where Jon puts it. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Jon – Fuck, c'mon. C'mere.”

 

Jon makes a sound, soft and strange and pathetic, and lets Stephen lead him. His skin aches where Stephen's fingers aren't and he can't do anything else.

 

So he's led to his feet then laid exposed on his couch and the leather is cold against his back and when he shivers Stephen lays on top of him and presses him further in with a kiss that destroys whatever urge for independent will he thought he possessed. He's dizzy with need, muscles disobedient, too loose and too tense, and though he whimpers and reaches out when Stephen draws away, it takes only a word and a soft touch for him to subside, limp and willing, waiting for anything, and watch himself be undressed.

 

Stephen is off-balance, moving with focused determination at odds with his heaving breath and glassy eyes. He's holding together – holding them both together – on a string and Jon can see it fraying. He wants to apologize, to help, to do something to reassure or remake this into something comfortable. But the thoughts are slow and disjointed and all he can focus on is the parts of him that demand Stephen's hands and need him closer and there's something about the new touch of cold leather as his pants are removed that's too much for him and once he's naked he lets out a wordless moan and drags Stephen back down. His erection is painful and he gives a brief, startled cry when it comes up against rough denim but he doesn't care, can't care when he's got Stephen's mouth against his and those hands are reaching down, reaching, searching and at last closing hot palms over his ass.

 

And fingers, those fingers, god – Jon moans and whimpers and bears down on them as they press and seek and spread him, four points from each side opening him up and he clings to Stephen, pressing hard against him, begging with his body as his face flames and he hurts, physically aches for more. He's never asked, never been pushed so far as to beg, maybe because no one's ever taken this much time, but if Stephen wants him to he will, he'll make the effort – but please, please don't make me.

 

He loses Stephen for a moment and almost panics because he's not being kissed anymore. But the hands are still there, spreading him, cradling him, and when he opens his eyes he can see him, again, moving down. And he can see his own erection, swollen and painful, but he doesn't want to so he looks at Stephen, can see him shaking and he wants – he wants to reach out. Jon's hands are sunk into the couch cushions and their joints ache when he unbends them. He can feel blood running hot and restless through them and it makes him weak, but he moves them to Stephen's shoulders, caresses, cups the back of his neck in one palm. He hears a breath Stephen hisses in and his face is suddenly buried in Jon's belly.

 

Stephen's hands leave his ass and he's being hugged around his hips. He can feel the air Stephen's moving, hot and moist against his skin, and the smooth skin of his chest or clavicle rubbing against his dick. And it's hard to – it's hard not to squirm. But if this is – if Stephen – Stephen needs a moment. So Jon shivers but doesn't squirm, pets his hair and rubs his neck, trying to ignore the throbbing need in his erection and the direct line connecting it to his tingling entrance.

 

Seconds pass and he says Stephen's name, soft, a question, a concern.

 

And Stephen takes it as a cue, apparently, that it's time to move.

 

He lifts from Jon's belly and drops again with a final shift down and takes Jon's dick in his mouth.

 

It's too sudden, too much, and Jon almost shrieks. He jerks in Stephen's arms, a compulsive drive for more hotwetsoftgoodfuckyesplease and he hears Stephen grunt, feels his cock hit the back of his throat.

 

“Oh, god!”

 

He wants to speak, wants to apologize, but Stephen swallows him down and sucks harder and he's lost sight of thought and shame and self and he needs just needs – 

 

“Ah!”

 

Stephen's hands – one of his hands – is back at Jon's ass, fingers touching, probing, god yes, a ghost caress at his entrance and it's hot, electric, and his moan breaks down into a deep, needy sound. Touch continues as he squirms in Stephen's hands, in Stephen's mouth, being sucked and tongued and there are Stephen's fingertips, brushing, flickering, and Jon needs, needs, wishes he'd do it more, do it harder, just a little harder, something, anything, please – 

 

And then one, just one fingertip does press, opens up the ring, and orgasm crashes into him, harsh, sudden, almost painful. It feels heavy, unending, and Stephen holds him through it, carries him, so Jon's not alone in it, until Jon catches him by the shoulders again and pulls, dazed and demanding.

 

“C'mon, c'mon,” he says. “C'mere, get – get up here – ”

 

He draws him up then down into a kiss that feels like a declaration, hot and deep and full up with as much tenderness as Jon can muster – gratitude and apology and affection on offer. And when it ends he can't meet Stephen's eyes so he focuses on his mouth, swollen and red and he says, voice pitched low, “Could you – Stephen – ”

 

He falters. He's thinking clearly, now, or sort of clearly, and the ache of shame is there with the ache of emptiness – of absence – of what he still wants.

 

Lips brush his temple and he hooks his fingers around the back of Stephen's neck to still them.

 

“Will you fuck me, now?” he asks.

 

There's a sharp intake of breath by his ear and Stephen's hands flex at his hips. He can see Stephen's erection still straining at the front of his pants and is reaching for it when Stephen catches his face between his hands and kisses him again, breathless and sweet, gasping against his lips, fingertips stroking cheeks and temples – there's passion in it but also affection, a return on everything Jon has unfolded and left bare. It shocks him to stillness and he sinks back into the couch with Stephen kneeling over him and, as the kiss grows deeper, with hands no steadier, he releases the button and zip at Stephen's fly.

 

Stephen breaks away with a hiss and a low moan, when Jon eases his cock out of confinement, then reaches down to stop him.

 

“Let me,” he says. And, when Jon's hands drop away, “You want this?”

 

Jon closes his eyes with a rough little gasp and reaches blindly to hug around Stephen's neck, again. A bolt of something hot and tight goes through him and he's back at the edge, again.

 

“I want you,” he says because it's a distinction he needs to make, the only distinction, flimsy as it is, between needing this and needing him and he feels himself beginning to shake.

 

He doesn't say anything else and Stephen doesn't make him. There's lotion on the desk, within arm's reach, and Stephen breaches him with fingers slick with it. It makes Jon's breath catch and Stephen lets himself be pushed away when Jon needs to scramble around onto his knees. And he doesn't make Jon wait – there are only moments in which Jon is kneeling, bare and exposed and alone, before a warm hand is coming to rest at his hip and tugging him back a little further to meet the damp solidity of Stephen's dick. He pushes in, pushes slow and steady, holding Jon tight as he shudders and whimpers and shames himself for need and once Stephen's in he gives Jon enough time to breath but not enough to think before he begins to fuck him.

 

Jon's second orgasm comes like that – on his knees with Stephen's dick burning inside him, with Stephen's hands strong at his hips. He gasps and moans and chokes on the very air, and he feels something, something other than orgasm, something tight in his chest, hot and painful, something that's been there all night, has maybe been there his entire life, being cracked and broken and knocked loose. There are tears building in his eyes with each stroke against his prostate and fuck it feels good, feels better than anything he's felt in years, than anything he's ever felt at all because it's never been like this, never been Stephen before, and pressure builds and pulls at him and his erection is back, angry and insistent, rising like the world needs more proof of how desperate he is. He tries to ignore it, to block out the ache in his eyes and the throb in his dick, to think only of the aching fulfillment of being fucked and how he wishes Stephen would do it just a little bit harder.

 

But it stretches longer, goes on and on, and Stephen's pace isn't changing and Jon is going higher and higher and he needs to be brought down, needs to be crushed, and his dick is so hard.

 

So he puts his hand on it, has to bend further and balance on one elbow, has to push his ass higher but Stephen grunts and the change makes his strokes deeper, makes it better, makes the space bigger and Jon needs it that much more. There's a seismic shift going on inside him, an up-swell at his core that seeks release, and the tears are still there, not going away, still building up behind his tight-shut eyelids, and when he touches his cock – godyes – one shameful drop slips out.

 

The breath he takes is hard and loud and dry and if it were going the other way it might be a scream. There's nothing that exists but Jon and the pain, his aching cock, his burning eyes, the desperate relief of the dick up his ass and the tightness in his chest that's telling him he shouldn't do this, shouldn't open himself, shouldn't let himself –

 

And then Stephen is there with him, Stephen bending over, lips to his back, panting out exertion, pushing it into Jon's skin and all Jon wanted was to be touched but he can feel Stephen's lips moving, hear his broken murmur over the sobs he can't quite contain, and it's too much, too deep, too far, and when he comes it hurts.

 

Orgasm leaves Jon empty and bruised and Stephen keeps him close and careful, hands gentle on his skin, dick still hard inside him. When he begins to pull out Jon says, “No!” his voice too rough for volume, too harsh to be ignored. He catches Stephen's hand and says, “Don't stop.”

 

Stephen pauses to press a gentle kiss to the center of Jon's back and pulls out as if he hadn't spoken. Jon gives a little cry and says, “Stephen – ”

 

Then the hands are on him, firm and insistent, and he's urged onto his back. He can see Stephen again, see his big eyes and sweat slick skin and hair clinging to his flushed face but his vision is blurred and his eyes feel hot and it's only when Stephen gasps out, “Oh, Jon – ” he realizes he's actually crying.

 

He makes a grab for Stephen and hauls him in close, clinging with hands at his biceps and legs around his waist, and pushes his mouth to his good ear. He can feel the tears on his own cheeks, the burn in his throat, and Stephen is hugging him as he tries to speak without shattering.

 

“Jon – ”

 

“It's okay, it's okay, I'm okay – ”

 

“Jon, you – ”

 

“It's okay, you didn't hurt me, I'm okay – ”

 

“Jon – ”

 

“Stephen, please – ”

 

His voice dissolves into sudden, wracking sobs, heavy and bewildering, and Stephen holds him, lets him cling and shudder and weep, making soft sounds and murmurs that finally coalesce into words.

 

“Jon – Jon, it's okay, got you, I got you, please don't – don't do this please – please – Jon, talk to me – ”

 

“Sorry.” He can't seem to stop, can't settle his breathing or stop the tears but he talks, between gasps, he says, “Sorry, I don't know – why – why I'm doing this – I'm sorry, Stephen, please – ”

 

He can feel Stephen, still erect, brushing his ass and the backs of his thighs and it feels like a tease, it feels like – 

 

“Jon – ”

 

“Stephen, please, do it – ”

 

“Jon, I won't hurt you – ”

 

“You didn't – Stephen – ”

 

“You're crying, Jon, I – ”

 

“Dammit, Stephen!” He bursts, chokes another rough sob and says, “That's not – it, Stephen, it's not and if you don't want to hurt me then fuck me, you're hurting me now.”

 

And it's not fair, he knows it's not fair he knows and he's about to –

 

He's shoved down into the cushions, again, hands on his shoulders holding him and his heart pounds and his brain panics because he's done it, he's fucked up, Stephen's going to walk out, fucking leave him, right now, open and empty and hurt someplace neither of them can even touch, but it doesn't matter because he's going to leave and Jon can't –

 

He loosens his legs around him, tries to hold back the hysterical rumble threatening to overwhelm him and he swears he'll let Stephen go, he'll let him, he won't keep him here, can't expect him to stay if – 

 

Hands, again, curving under his thighs and Stephen sounds thick and ragged as he says, “Jon, look at me, baby, you've got to look at me, please – ”

 

Jon can't – Jon can look at him. If he wants to say – he has to look at him. And he does, with still-streaming eyes, he looks up at him and when he does, Stephen kisses him, deep, hard, and pushes his words directly into Jon's mouth.

 

“You've got to look at me, baby, if I'm going to do this, you've got to look at me – ”

 

And Jon can feel him, feel his erection sliding along his ass, and he says, “God, yes, please, Stephen, yes, anything, yes – ”

 

“Tell me how you want it.”

 

Stephen is speaking into his cheek, earnest and quiet and tense, giving Jon a pass so he can say this without hating himself though it might make him cry, might make his breath stutter and his tears flow faster.

 

“Hard, Stephen, please, do it – ah – ”

 

And Stephen enters him, sits up and pushes in and his eyes are on Jon's and Jon cries and cries and his sobs are harder and more ragged with every thrust and Stephen doesn't stop, doesn't pause, he takes Jon at his word, at the word of his grasping hands and half-formed moans, shattered by ever louder tears, reformed into wordless pleas. He holds Jon's hips and pounds into him, groaning and cringing and as he gets closer he starts talking, again, starts saying Jon's name and 'yes' and 'please' and Jon holds tighter, moans louder, and bursts into fresh, whimpering sobs as his prostate is pounded and his heart battered and Stephen doesn't let him go, won't let him look away, just holds him and fucks him and fucks him until the whole world breaks.

 

 

Jon cries a while longer, afterward. It's been a long time since he cried and he's forgotten how to stop. Stephen holds him, grip firm and tender, until his throat feels bloodied, his eyes dryly swollen. He holds him until his tears stop and silence falls and for a long time after. They're lying on their sides, Jon pinned between Stephen and the couch back, face buried in Stephen's chest, holding onto his waist, trying not to cling too hard. Stephen shifts and carries Jon with him, so he's nestled beside and on top of Stephen, who rubs his back, again, slow circles between his shoulder blades. It's so warm, so peaceful, so natural another wash of tears rises but recedes just as quickly. This is something he can deal with. He has to.

 

Stephen asks him, “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

 

“Love to,” Jon says.

 

There's a pause. Stephen sighs and presses a kiss into his hair.

 

“I feel like I should apologize again,” he says.

 

Jon nuzzles closer, holds on tighter. Stephen stops rubbing and presses his back, an acknowledgment.

 

“Don't. I needed that.”

 

Stephen laughs. It sounds like he might start crying.

 

“Not that,” he says, once he's contained whatever feelings were about to spill over. “Not just that. I mean – I saw you crying. And it terrified me. But once you said keep going – and I realized – you're kind of – fuck, Jon, you're beautiful like this.”

 

Jon sputters out his own laugh.

 

“Yeah?” he says. “Beautiful? You mean fuckable, right? Oh, god. You sick motherfucker.”

 

“I know,” Stephen says, then drags him up to tenderly kiss his dry lips. “I know.” He presses their foreheads together and Jon sees from centimeters away the spidersilk veins of his eyelids and dark, thick lashes.

 

“Jon?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can we do this again? Maybe not in your office? And maybe – I assume you don't cry every time you have sex?”

 

Jon holds him tighter, laughs a little.

 

“Safe assumption,” he says. “And yeah. Yes. Let's – We should do that.”

 

“Now? I mean – ” Stephen clears his throat and draws back enough to meet Jon's eyes properly. He cups Jon's jaw in his palm, and looks at him with such tenderness, such affection Jon's shattered nerves would be set to run if they hadn't exhausted themselves already. “Can I – Let me take you home. And stay – stay over with you.” He breaths in and blinks and Jon realizes his eyes are wet. Jon hugs him, guilt roiling in him, and is about to say 'yes' and 'of course' and 'anything' and 'why don't you just move in?' when Stephen speaks again. “Let me stay – Let me be – Be with you. Please. I want to be with you.”

 

And Jon wants to break, wants to fucking shatter all over again. He wants to cry and shake and beg for forgiveness. But he can't – he won't do that. Not again. Not to Stephen, not when this whole night has been an exercise in self-indulgent misery. Not when Jon's already desecrated what should have been beautiful, not when he's already come so close to destroying what they might have between them before it ever starts, just because he's got some weird emotional hang-ups that couldn't wait another second to spill out.

 

So he holds it back, he reigns it in, and kisses Stephen's forehead, soft and careful and light. And then he draws back and sits up and pulls Stephen with him. He says, “Okay. Let's go. Let's do that. Let's go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was not in a good place when I wrote this in 2011; correspondingly, Jon is not in a good place in this fic. I didn't exactly recognize it at a time but he's in what I now facetiously call a 'little doom spiral' and is actually a Major Depressive Episode. (Viva projection.) There was a planned sequel from Stephen's point of view that upped the sad factor by about seven hundred and didn't have any sex to make up for it but I was, surprise, too sad to write it at that point. It had a happy (or maybe just hopeful) ending, though, so know that, in this 'verse, they had some shit to work through but made it through okay. I hope we can all do the same.


End file.
